


Resurrected Self Destruction

by MizErie



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religious Content, Religious References, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizErie/pseuds/MizErie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>After trying for years to hold on to even the smallest amount of hope, Frank Iero has finally given up. He’s tired of his shitty life and his failed dreams, of never getting a single break. As he puts his last plan into action, life fights back in the form of an unsuspecting man.</p><p>(On indefinite hiatus - I'm thinking about turning this into an original novel for publication.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurrected Self Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I am bringing this story back. I can't give you an idea of how long it will be between updates as I am posting this as it's written, and my beta and I do have lives beyond fanfiction. However, I do hope that you'll subscribe and continue to read this as it's posted!!~~
> 
>  
> 
> All my love!  
> xo Miz
> 
> I have to give credit to my co-author/beta Amy!! Amy is my best friend, and she's also my amazing editor! THANK YOU, AMY!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains triggers that may bother some readers. Please read at your own emotional risk. I am purposefully not using warnings or many tags to hold the suspense of the story and not give away what is going to happen.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with My Chemical Romance or the guys that make up the band. No part of this is true; it purely a fictional story. Any part of this story that resembles real life is only coincidental. No parts of this story may be reproduced or used without permission.

The air is thick, the sort of thick that makes even the natives notice that distinct Jersey smell. It sticks in the back of their throats and clings to their clothes. As Frank breathes it in, he concentrates on the  _clunk, clunk, clunk_  of his worn-out, black boots on the sidewalk, watching the scuffed toes of them appear and then disappear from his vision as he walks towards his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar. Well, the only one within walking distance. He’s not really what could be called a regular, but he’s there enough to know that no one will bother him. It’s just a bonus that it's located less than a block from his shitty apartment.  
  
Frank pulls open the heavy door and is welcomed into the dark interior by the smell of stale beer and the sound of bad music playing too loudly on the old radio. The barkeep favors old country songs and insists on playing only those when he’s the only person working. Frank sighs heavily; depressing songs about lost loves and bad luck seem to be the perfect accompaniment to his evening, even if he hates them himself.  
  
Frank drags a vacant stool farther towards the end of the bar. He cards his fingers through his shoulder length hair as he settles down and then leans his elbows against the varnished wood, picking at his nails while he waits to be noticed. It doesn’t take long for the old man to saunter that direction. The barkeep crosses his leathery-skinned arms and hands, his over-grown, yellowing beard blowing from the wind of a old box fan as he eyes the young loner intently.  
  
“You look about like shit,” he finally says.  
  
“Wow, Graves. You don’t have to sugar coat it.” Frank checks his wallet, counting his cash. “Give me a couple of Everclear and Cokes. Easy on the Coke.” Frank doesn’t miss Graves rolling his eyes and grumbling something that includes “gay bar” as he wanders off to get the requested drinks. As he watches the glasses fill with his liquid courage, Frank thinks about his plans for the evening; all he wants to do is get so far beyond inebriated that he won’t question any of it.  
  
Graves puts the glasses down hard enough to slosh a small amount of the liquid on the countertop. “Here,” he grunts. Frank raises one of the glasses to his lips without looking up.  
  
“Keep spilling my drinks and I’ll stop paying full price,” he mutters before taking a long drink. By the time he lowers it again, Graves is back at the other end of the bar, motioning towards him. The three men that Frank can only assume are permanent scenery here — he’s never come through the doors and not seen them — all laugh at whatever Graves said. Frank just raises his drink at them in salute and winks dramatically with a wide, fake smile. Only one of them catches the gesture, and he sneers at the younger man as Frank finishes off the first drink.  
  
Frank’s familiar with this particular alcohol. It’s definitely not his poison of choice, but tonight he’s not so much concerned about the enjoyment of the drinking experience. He’s not concerned about the hangover experience either. He just wants to get drunk as fast as humanly possible so he can stumble back up to his apartment without a trace of fear or self awareness. He motions for Graves as he chugs the second one down. Graves grunts when he notices both of Frank’s glasses are empty only minutes after he poured them.

“Don’t be trying to kill yourself drinking that shit so fast in my bar, kid.”

Frank scoffs.  
  
“I’m killing myself in my apartment later on, so you don’t have a thing to worry about.” Frank feels relief at finally telling someone what he’s planning to do. Maybe Graves will find out he’s dead and tell someone about his interaction with the doomed man this evening, but for now, Frank knows that Graves isn’t taking him seriously. “Look, give me two more straight shots. I’ll down them, pay you, and be out of your hair. Or what little you have left anyway.”

Graves growls, his voice low and menacing.  
  
“I don’t want you throwing up in my bar neither, you damn freak,” Graves says, his distaste for Frank obvious.  
  
Frank glares at him. “I’m not a freak. I’m punk. And I’m a paying customer, so get me my drinks.”

Graves fills both of Frank’s glasses with the requested clear alcohol.  
  
“Yeah, you’re a punk alright. Now drink your goddamn drinks and get out of my bar.”

Frank picks one of the glasses up, but pauses before taking a sip. He’s enjoying irritating Graves and figures if it’s the last human interaction he’s ever going to have, why not go all out?

Frank smirks.  
  
“How’d you get the name Graves anyway? How many people did you kill to get such a nickname?” Five minutes ago he wouldn’t have had the guts to ask Graves that. The old man is twice his size and could probably kill him barehanded. But Frank is already buzzing, even though he’s completely unaware of it.  
  
“I’m going to kill  _you_  if you don’t drink those fucking things, pay me, and get the hell out of my bar.”  
  
Frank knows better than to utter another syllable, so he turns up the glass he’s been holding. He gasps for a fresh breath of air before doing the same with the second one. Frank was able to ignore the burning before, but that much Everclear sliding down his throat so quickly takes his breath away. The dejected man sputters and coughs as he tosses two twenties on the counter, his eyes watering. Still trying to swallow it all down, Frank climbs up from the bar.  
  
“I’ll get your change,  _punk_ ,” Graves mutters almost triumphantly.

Frank shakes his head adamantly, clearing his throat. “No,” his voice is raspy and strained, “I don’t need it.”  
  
“Kid, that’s almost a twenty dollar tip. We don’t like each other’s company  _that_  much.” Graves’ bushy eyebrows draw together, and Frank starts backing towards the door. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” The barkeep almost sounds concerned, but Frank is already at the door. He keeps walking as if he hadn't heard the old man.  
  
He finds it more difficult to put one foot in front of the other for the walk back home. Once he finally manages to coordinate the movement of his feet into a consistent rhythm, Frank raises his head and looks up at the dark orange sky. Part of him wishes he knew of someplace he could watch his last sunset.  
  
Frank’s a bit surprised at himself. Even taking into account the alcohol in his system, he assumed he would still feel at least a little fear. After all, he’s walking home to his certain death. That’s what this whole plan was, to get drunk so he would have the courage to actually go through with it this time. He wasn’t expecting to feel relieved that his shitty life was finally ending.  
  
A smile creeps over the young man’s lips, and he sighs contently, tucks his hands in his jeans pockets, and slows his pace a little. He has a few minutes before the alcohol takes full effect, and Frank just wants to breathe goodbye to all that has tormented him in his life. So what if it’s winning? Frank never thought his life was much of a game to be won. Who ever had such a stupid idea anyway? He’s tired of suffering. He’s tired of pretending things are eventually going to get better. Frank’s just simply tired. It’s a kind of tired that only an eternity of sleep can alleviate.  
  
He reaches his rundown apartment building just as the sky goes dark. He places his hand on the door handle and takes one last look at this god forsaken, heartless world. No one is even going to notice him missing. Frank lowers his head and begins to pull the door open, but the sounds of commotion and pained whimpers catch his attention.  
  
Frank looks at the door, a small quandary tearing at the little mental capability he has left. He wants to just pull it open and go upstairs to what he has planned. But it couldn’t hurt to look. The worst that could happen is he gets killed, but he’s planning on dying anyway. One more reason to add to his list of why this world isn’t worth living in anymore couldn’t hurt things either, so Frank steps over to the corner of the building.  
  
Three dark silhouettes are kicking something in the alleyway. Frank squints and tries to see what they are kicking. Suddenly the “something” moves and cries out. With his heart hammering in his throat, Frank realizes the thugs are kicking a man. 

 


End file.
